The Wrong Kind of Story
by OverlyDramatic
Summary: How Blair expected Paris to be anything but a disaster was beyond her. It just figured that Dan Humphrey was there to witness it all.  post-S3


Okay, so this is an AU moment set just after season 3. It's got fallout of CB and DS, but focuses on DB. Could be interpreted as friendship or otherwise. I leave it to the reader's discretion.

I actually wrote this last year on the summer hiatus, but for whatever reason decided not to upload it. Probably because I was doing my best to pretend Chuck and Blair weren't ruined. And resolutely ignoring my ever-increasing Dair curiosity that started in 1x04, and I've been sidestepping since 1x18. But I've long-since fully accepted the Dair love, and just now remembered this sitting lonely on my harddrive, so I figured "why not?" I may as well put it out there.

I hope this is still worth it for anyone to read. I know the storyline was from ages ago, but I guess the new summer hiatus is as good a reason as any to revisit the past. Besides: Paris, Morocco-close enough, right? Lol.

I'd love for some feedback. I've never attempted these characters before, and I love them both dearly. I'm positive they've both changed significantly (especially towards each other) since this moment, but hopefully I got the essence of them right. If not, please let me know how I can improve!

I didn't have a beta for this, but I self-edited it several times. Feel free to fuss if I missed anything!

**Disclaimer: I don't own Gossip Girl, Leighton Meester, or Penn Badgley. More's the pity.**

**xoxoxoxo**

How Blair expected Paris to be anything but a disaster was beyond her. The fact that she hadn't seen this coming was, quite frankly, embarrassing. Or would have been, if she weren't so drunk off her Louboutins.

Sure, the first two weeks had been fabulous. Serena was back to her bubbly, Bubbly-loving self, unencumbered by blond potheads and unwashed exes. And Blair had left certain sweet talking Bassholes entirely behind her, throwing herself into retail therapy in the only place that could truly encompass the meaning of the term.

Unfortunately, her Basstard had a nasty habit of stabbing her in the heart when she least expected it. The fact that Dan Humphrey had witnessed the spectacle was really just icing on an already artery-clogging cake.

"Humphrey," she had been saying, doing her best to let him down easy despite the fact that she had _no idea_ what possessed him to follow Serena to Paris.

But he had pushed her toward a certain someone when her heart needed a nudge, and punched that same someone, not three hours later. The least she could do was sugar coat her rejection on Serena's behalf.

"Serena appreciates the lengths you've gone to win her back, but please stop stalking her. It can only end in tragedy, and I'm not going to-"

And then her heart stopped, and her perfect mouth gaped, and Dan Humphrey and his pleading gestures ran straight into her back, mussing her new Chanel silk camisole.

She honestly didn't notice.

Chuck Bass glanced up, gazed straight into her eyes, flexed his jaw in acknowledgement, and casually returned to seducing a Parisian Serena. A Parisian Serena wearing the biggest Mother Chucking diamond earrings Blair had seen since he'd given _her_ a pair for their six-month anniversary. After he'd tied her to the bed with jewel-encrusted handcuffs.

"Humphrey, we're leaving," she barked, spinning on her heels and snagging him by the wrist.

She marched him out of the bar, eyes fixed on escape and head held high. It was a testament to how low she had suddenly fallen that he didn't say a word. If she glanced back, she was sure he'd have some sympathetic, wounded puppy expression on his face. And Blair simply could not deal with the mortification.

She yanked him into the elevator without another thought, keeping a tight grip on his arm (on her sanity) as the ornate lift crawled steadily upward. She wondered if its manufacturers designed it specifically for amorous couples and the prolonged heartbreak of those escaping them.

Beside her, Humphrey shifted, clearly uncomfortable with this sudden derailment of his attempts to woo Serena. Blair's fingers tightened to the point that she was sure he'd have red marks. It kept the tears out of her eyes, imagining the water in his.

The doors opened with a melodic 'ping;' Blair barely schooled herself enough to walk briskly down the hall. She felt like running. She felt like shoving Cabbage Patch into a wall—pretending he didn't know her shame—and sprinting down the carpeted hallway in her designer shoes. First Chuck Bass cheats on her with—she couldn't even think her name, the blonde horror whose brother was precariously and unwittingly keeping her upright—and now he follows her to Paris to show off his new foreign fling? She needed to escape this nightmare.

Despite herself, she felt incapable of releasing the vice grip on Humphrey's arm. She pulled him with her, down the endless hall to her room, and firmly closed the door behind them.

_Now what, Blair?_

Her inner voice was sarcastic. It kept the caustic edge in her stance. Clearly, Serena's brother-slash-ex could not be allowed to leave. She needed to find some way to handle the situation. Then she could sob into her pillow, drink an entire bottle of champagne, and send a Gossip Girl a scathing blast about whoever next crossed her path.

"Blair," the voice, though uncertain and unsteady, had that Dan Humphrey determination that rankled so.

"Don't," she commanded, sharp and authoritative despite the hitch in her voice.

She had never done well with platitudes, and she knew that was all he would offer.

Setting her features, she turned and told him bluntly, "You never saw that."

She wondered if he would argue, or simply roll his eyes and abandon her. Then again, he may do something stupid like bring up his sister.

He paused to examine her. His eyes sent strange feelings crawling up her spine, and Blair felt both annoyed and uncomfortable by his intent stare.

Apparently he deemed her human enough to console. Today, at least.

"You deserve better," he told her sincerely, and despite the echo of a wedding reception far far away, despite the fact that his opinion meant _absolutely nothing_ to her, that he hated Chuck on principle, that she was probably just another notch on his goody-two-shoes belt—or worse, another step on the get-to-Serena checklist—Blair found herself crumbling.

"He was supposed to fight for me," she whispered, sinking onto the plush carpet and huddling against the bed. She managed to stave off tears, but she knew her features were twisted with the effort.

She couldn't believe that she was breaking down in front of _Dan Humphrey_, of all people, but she couldn't make herself stop. For some reason, he always brought out the honesty in her.

"We hurt each other, and we fight for each other, and we fall in love again."

It didn't matter what Chuck had done, how irreparably he'd damaged her this time. The fact that he wasn't even _trying_ hurt worse than anything. Wasn't she worth fighting for?

Dan moved toward her, face twisted into some awful expression of concern. His hand was hesitant, fingers unfurling slowly as he stooped to brush her shoulder.

Blair needed reinforcements for this. The moment she felt his body heat radiating across the scant distance, she swept gracefully to her feet, strode to the bar, and gulped down half the contents of a bottle of Pinot Noir. Turning back to Dan, who was blinking in surprise at the much lighter bottle, she tilted her head at the array of alcohol behind her.

"So, Humphrey: do you have class, or should I go straight for the hard liquor?"

It took him precisely twenty-three minutes, a quarter of the Pinot Noir, and 4 shots of vodka to tell her about Georgina.

She gagged on her bourbon.

If she had to pick two people who should never reproduce, it would be Dan and Georgina, uncontested. The thought that they'd reproduce _together_ was both horrifying (she'd _seen it_, damn them; she'd never purge that sight) and laughable (Georgina's standards were low, granted, but _Brooklyn_? And Dan didn't _have_ standards, but for all his self-righteous judgments he couldn't steer clear of Georgina STD Sparks?). If she (the little urchin had to be a girl; genes that fucked up would destroy a boy before he hit preschool) . . . if she inherited Dan's intelligence and manipulated Georgina's connections, she would _still_ barely be a functioning human being.

At least now she knew why Dan was so intent on revisiting the past.

"Serena and I have always had this connection, y'know," he slurred.

Tipsy herself, she simply sank deeper into her pillow, hoping the expensive fabric would drown the sound of his voice.

". . . something beyond ourselves," he continued in that tortured poet's voice.

Blair wrinkled her nose and pulled herself up against the headboard. She sipped her bourbon, crossed her arms, and sighed melodramatically.

"The only thing keeping you and Serena together was some ridiculous Romeo and Juliet fairytale. Star-crossed lovers, pulled apart by class and family—you know, the things that _matter_."

"_Love_ is what's important, Blair," he began, but she continued, and he grudgingly fell silent.

"But, Dan Humphrey," she poked him in the shoulder, and his mouth twisted. If he were sober, she was sure his gaze would be long-suffering. "Those cretins _died_. Because of their own stupidity."

Never mind that she'd always found the story wildly romantic. She'd learned better, and now she had to share the wealth. Of knowledge, that is.

"Romeo was a cavorting, cheating scumbag who picked Juliet on a whim, and Juliet was too naïve to know the difference. The only place stories like that will get you is Misery."

"Blair, doomed romances are the basis of literature. Of life!" he added, turning to her with bright eyes. "Where would society be without Shakespeare's contribution to the expression of intricate human relationships? His character interactions show an amazing grasp of societal-."

"Oh, don't get all Psychoanalytic on me, Humphrey," Blair complained, setting her glass on the nightstand and attempting to arrange her skirt. "If the topic weren't so utterly boring, I'd happily talk circles around you. Honestly," she blinked at him, expression pensive, "I've never in my life met an intellectual drunk. I'm not a whit better for the experience."

"How is it any different from those Hepburn movies you love?" he countered, taking another swill of vodka. "They're all about true love. Overcoming adversity, overcoming yourself."

Blair frowned at him. "How do you know I love Audrey?" she asked suspiciously.

If she found out he'd been stalking _her_ too, she'd probably have to give up subtlety altogether and just burn down that little Humphrey loft.

"I don't know," he muttered sarcastically, "because I've _met_ Blair Waldorf?"

She blinked, thought about it for a moment, and nodded her acceptance of his answer. She probably should have made a scathing remark regardless, but the liquor was making it hard to think clearly.

"I don't think fairy tales are real," Blair announced, voice wavering, after a long minute of silence.

She wasn't sure where the thought had come from, but it seemed like an important discovery. She had based her life on fairy tales, after all.

Dan thought hard for a moment, and then nodded to himself.

"You've been stuck in the wrong one," he countered, patting her clumsily on the thigh.

She glanced down at his hand, frowned for a minute, and continued.

"There is no right one for me. I've tried _Cinderella_. I lived _Beauty and the Beast_. But in the end," she paused to swallow, then went resolutely on, "I'm just the ugly stepsister."

Around his glass of liquor, Dan made a noise of disagreement.

Blair paused for a moment to think.

"I guess I could be a wicked stepmother."

Dan shook his head, and Blair's eyes widened in horror.

"Oh my gosh, what if I'm that slutty feather duster?"

"No you're not," Dan argued, sliding his cup onto the nightstand beside him.

His drink slopped onto the antique finish, and Blair sighed as she realized she'd have to call the maid. Dan, clueless to the mess, shifted from his slouched position so he could fumble for her hand.

"You're not wicked," he stated, as plainly as he could, "or ugly."

"You're right, that's ridiculous." Blair held her head high. "Just because I'm not blonde doesn't mean I'm _ugly_. Why do all these blondes think they can steal _my_ fairy tales? I'm _Audrey_. She doesn't _need_ fairy tales. She makes her own stories."

Dan nodded, accepting the boost to her confidence with a crooked grin.

Blair, despite herself, grinned back. She settled against the pillows, already feeling better. His hand, which she'd just noticed wrapped around hers, felt odd and comfortable.

"You know," Dan offered after a moment, pulling Blair's gaze inexorably back to his face, "he was going to propose."

He offered the information as if he were helping, and, in typical Dan Humphrey fashion, his attempt to make her feel better made everything infinitely worse. The confidence she had stolen from Audrey skittered away, replaced by visions of glittering diamond earrings and far too many blondes and the unavoidable feeling that she just wasn't worth fighting for. Nate had never bothered, and now Chuck had given up the chase. Not even the promise of forever had been enough.

Blair grabbed her glass from the table.

"It's probably not even yours," she returned the favor with deliberate skill before taking a calm sip of amber liquid.

Dan slid back down the bed and stared dejectedly at the ceiling. Despite herself, Blair felt bad about putting the morose look on his face.

"You should get a DNA test," she advised, unable to make herself placate him but hoping to make it better nonetheless. "If it's not yours, it's best to avoid a scandal."

"My dad will freak out either way," he admitted, shifting to face her on the bed. She was still sitting, and he looked like a little kid staring up at her.

"Oh please," Blair waved the comment away. "Rufus Humphrey has no room to talk. He had _groupies_ for goodness' sake."

"You don't understand," Dan insisted, eyes widening with the force of his words. "He'll be furious. He'll be _disappointed_."

Blair sighed.

"You know, I don't get you, Humphrey. You think it's perfectly okay to date your stepsister, but make the perfectly average—albeit absolutely _idiotic_—mistake of impregnating a floozy, and suddenly you think you've got a First Class ticket to Hell."

"And you're the biggest bitch on the planet, but every other day you're committing a random act of kindness."

Blair scoffed.

"I don't do _kindness_, Humphrey. I will, however, find some dirt on your dad so he'll leave you alone. Because I need a thrill," she paused, glancing down at Dan, who had fallen back to the bed, head rolled her way, "and you need all the help you can get."

"Thanks, Blair," he grumbled up at her, sarcasm tingeing his words.

"You're welcome, Daniel," she replied with false sweetness.

They both meant the words more than they cared to admit. The feigned dislike quickly faded from their expressions, and they fell into a comfortable silence.

Long moments passed before Dan broke the stillness. "I've been thinking," he mumbled, sobering, if only slightly, "that fairy tales are about music."

She stared down at him, her eyes wide and innocent as the haze cleared and Dan solidified into a real human being, looking comfortable and ridiculously rumpled, sprawled across the expensive bedspread.

Then the alcohol stole her vision, and she scoffed.

"No," she stated plainly, eyes slipping closed as she slid slowly down the pillows.

She opened her eyes and studied the ceiling, its pattern both lovely and intricate. There were tinted grooves between the fleur-de-lis, and the faux-antique design made her think of dirt and Brooklyn. She wondered if those people believed in fairy tales, too.

"They aren't," she finally finished.

"Serena made me hear music," he admitted softly, his earlier desperation gone.

She wondered if he had realized that fumbling for a comfortable past wouldn't make the present any more livable. More likely, the alcohol had finally lulled him into complacency.

"I used to dance for Chuck," she stated, so calmly that the words barely registered before they were out.

And then the tears she had been avoiding all night began to slide noiselessly down her face, and just as wordlessly Dan pulled her to him, and she cried into the cheap fabric of his barely designer t-shirt.

By the time her eyes dried, Blair was exhausted and nearly sober. With a gasp, she lifted her face from his chest, smoothing mascara stains from her cheeks with delicate fingers.

Dan's free hand snagged her wrist, pulling it back against his chest.

Blair frowned down at him, the self-righteous Brooklyn local she occasionally called friend, and tried to find the willpower to move away.

Dan's hand clasped hers. His body was warm, and the rough fingers of his other hand made broad, soothing sweeps along her silk-clad hip.

Avoiding his gaze, she settled back into his frame.

"The prince is never the poor one, Humphrey," she mumbled into his neck, defiant in thought, if nothing else.

"Gregory Peck was a newspaper reporter," his voice was steady, the subtle edge of argument evident even through his whispering tone.

Blair Waldorf was always right, and Dan Humphrey was always right.

She closed her eyes, nuzzled his soft grey shirt, and melted into his chest. Neither spoke again.

**xoxoxoxoxo**

Thanks for reading! Please review.


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